


our souls negotiate there

by celestialskiff, yourtinseltinkerbell



Series: the ecstasy: a Magicians daemon au [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians), Brakebills (The Magicians), Brakebills is canonically awful, Cuddling & Snuggling, Daemon Touching, Daemons, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Graphic Format: GIF, M/M, Multi, Platonic Kissing, Queer Themes, Queerplatonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:14:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27180241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff, https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourtinseltinkerbell/pseuds/yourtinseltinkerbell
Summary: People say that daemons settle when you first fall in love. But Eliot had never been in love: in lust, definitely.Eliot Waugh is not looking for a boyfriend. But his daemon might have other ideas.
Relationships: Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: the ecstasy: a Magicians daemon au [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1984829
Comments: 20
Kudos: 153





	our souls negotiate there

**Author's Note:**

> Title: from John Donne’s [The Ecstasy](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44099/the-ecstasy)
> 
> Text: celestialskiff  
> Art: yourtinseltinkerbell 
> 
> Note: This fic was written in collaboration with **yourtinseltinkerbell**. She came up with the details of this AU, including the daemons and their names. While the prose is mine, the ideas, including some of the individual scenes, are all hers. It wouldn’t have been written without her.
> 
> Thanks to **capeofstorm** for beta-reading and handholding. 
> 
> **Warning** : For those afraid of snakes, Alice's daemon is a snake, and the story includes a gif of a snake.

People say that daemons settle when you first fall in love.

But Eliot had never been in love: in lust, definitely. He thought lust was probably what people meant when they said love. People liked to turn everything into gooey romance instead of boners. He wasn’t in love with Isaac – it was just that. Well. Today he’d watched Isaac on the basketball court and the way he moved made something in Eliot’s chest clench. The easy stretch of his thighs. The swift turn of his torso. It was like watching someone dance. 

And then in math class, Isaac slammed his books onto the desk next to Eliot’s, leaning his head on one first, and Eliot could smell him: clean sweat, mostly, a fresh _boy_ scent that made Eliot imagine licking Isaac’s armpits or pressing his face against the back of his neck and – He had to stop thinking about it so he didn’t get hard. 

After school, there was nowhere to go except outside. The house was too small. The barn was full of – livestock, and his dad. The town was too small, too: everything except the sky made him feel stifled. On the rough ground outside his house, it was cold enough to make his ears hurt, but he walked slowly, looking at the stretch of grey-blue overhead. At least there was this. Every time he saw a plane cross the cold sky he felt a surge of something like hope. 

Isadora, beside him, changed shape again and again, restless. First she was a swallow, swooping low over the field, and then she was a red-tailed hawk, then a coyote. She moved like gravity didn’t apply to her. She made no sound. Eliot, who’d grown a foot so fast his bones hurt, felt big and loud and ungainly next to her. None of his shirts covered his wrists, and his armpits had started to smell. 

He was –

He swallowed. He said it out loud: “I’m fucked.” 

It wasn’t because he’d had some kind of revelation when he looked at Isaac today. He’d known for a long time that he wanted boys. That he was different in a shameful way, a way some people could see as soon as they looked at him. But Isaac had made him realise that he was never going to want to _change_. He wanted to lick Isaac’s cheek, to feel Isaac’s fingers tugging his hair, he wanted Isaac’s cock against his mouth – He wanted all of that more than he wanted his dad to love him. 

He wanted Isaac more than he wanted to be safe. 

He stopped at the top of the ridge. It was barely a hill, but it was the tallest point around. He looked up at the sky, eyes watering. He heard a whuff of air: Isadora nudged him with a whiskery nose. She was in the form of a little Appalachian pony again. Small, stocky, and comforting. Eliot put his hand on her nuzzle, and leant his cheek against her. 

“What are we going to do?” he asked her. 

As always, she was calmer than him. “What _can_ we do?” 

“It’s OK for you, you’re not the one Dad will –” He stopped. That wasn’t fair. If Dad hurt him, Iz would suffer too. 

“I liked watching Isaac run, too. And Swift.” 

“Swift?” 

“His daemon, of course. She’s settled: she’s a grey fox.” 

Eliot chewed his lip. “We’re stuck here for – another four years, at least. What are we going to do, Iz? We can’t be like this.” 

He didn’t just mean being – gay. He meant the power inside him, too. The pulse in his heart, the terrible, destructive power. He couldn’t name it, but it seemed to grow bigger every day. There was so much inside him. What if it escaped? What if he got mad at Dad and – and killed him? 

“We can,” Isadora said. Then her form rippled: changed. She was still a horse, but her body elongated, growing more elegant, more regal. Instead of a stocky mountain pony, she became a horse of fine lines, tall and lithe, her coat so bright she seemed to be made of spun gold. 

An Arabian mare. Eliot swallowed. “You’re beautiful,” he said. He loved Isadora, but he didn’t often think of her as beautiful. As anything other than a part of his own messy heart. 

“I know,” Isadora said. She nudged his shoulder with her nose. “I’m not going to change again.” 

It took Eliot a second to grasp what she was saying. “You have to – Iz, you can’t stay like this!” 

She was beautiful, yes, but – He couldn’t have an Arabian mare as a daemon. She was so large, so striking: she took up more space than he could allow himself. Hardly anyone had a horse daemon and not – not like this. 

“Why not?” 

“Because – You know why! We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves!” 

“This shape is the right shape,” Isadora said. “I just know.” 

“Because of Isaac? I don’t like him that much!” 

Isadora snorted. “No. Because we know who we are.” 

Eliot put his hand on her neck: such velvety softness. He could feel the ropes of her tendons. She was made for speed. She looked like she belonged to a different world: where everything was beautiful, and fair, and just. Where there was no such thing as shame. 

She was too much: too regal, too beautiful, too big. And, looking at her, he loved her, fiercely. In a way he hadn’t known he knew how to love anything. 

“Really, Iz? Is this really us?” He felt a kind of awe. 

“You know it is,” she said, voice gentle now. She nudged him again: she had height on him now, she could knock him over. Her eyes were liquid-dark in her fine-boned face. 

Yes: Eliot knew. She was right. This was right. There wasn’t any other way for them to be. 

“Well.” Eliot gathered his strength. “People will just have to learn, won’t they? That this is who we are.” 

**

Eliot didn’t believe in love at first sight, either, until he met her. Margo.

The room was full of Magicians. Full of answers to questions that Eliot had carried with him all his life. This was _his_ place. A place where he might finally fit. The room was too hot, and the Magicians were mostly scared, and they were drinking cheap beer. But it was still – well. Everything Eliot had been afraid to look for. 

And there she was. At the centre of that too-hot room. It seemed like a light was shining on her, only on her, and in comparison, everything else blurred and grew dim. It took Eliot some time to realise this was only because she _glowed metaphorically_ and it wasn’t an actual side-effect of the lighting or a spell. 

Beside her stood a daemon almost as big Isadora. Not as tall, but bulkier. Eliot could see strength in the way he moved, a lazy assurance that he could knock over any daemon who bothered them. 

Isadora didn’t really like parties, but she’d let him come to this one. She stood behind him: he took up a lot of space in the room because of her. People looked at them. He’d learnt to like it. He’d learnt to make himself worth looking at. 

“Finally someone worth our time,” Isadora said into his ear. 

The woman made the first move. Her stride slow and deliberate as she walked over, just like her daemon’s. She wasn’t going to hurry. Other people could match her pace. “You’re staring,” she said. 

“You’re beautiful,” Eliot said. 

She laughed. “Don’t they teach you better lines in magic school?” 

“I just got here.” Eliot swallowed. It had been years since he’d felt this nervous during a social interaction. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. 

Isadora had inclined her head. She was talking to the lion. Eliot couldn’t hear their voices, but he could feel a current of warmth coming from Isadora. Her conversation, at least, was going well. 

“It’s too hot for Raja,” the woman said. “I’m Margo. Let’s go outside.” 

Eliot was never the same after that, after he walked through the late summer evening beside Margo. Their daemons ran ahead, sleek in the dark grass. The stars were almost as clear as in Indiana, and Eliot recognised them like old friends. Raja moved through the night as though he was born to it. Isadora, with surprising trust, followed in his footsteps. Eliot heard an owl.

Margo’s arm brushed his, and he felt his stomach clench. When she spoke, he lowered his head to hear her clearly. Raja was a king: so was Margo. Eliot only wanted to be her loyal subject. 

He already knew he was never going to tell her that. 

“When did he settle?” Eliot asked. He could feel the pulse of his heart in his throat. What if – what if Margo didn’t want to be friends? What if she didn’t like him? 

He didn’t know what he’d do. 

“Very personal. Direct. No small talk.” Margo didn’t sound approving or disapproving. 

She walked in silence, and Eliot grew more and more nervous that he’d pushed her too far until she said, “In freshman year of high school. I was dating this guy – he was older than me. Kind of hot, in a jock way. Raja knew he was a dick, but – I don’t know, he had a nice car. He took me places. Then one night, he – It was late, and I wanted to go home – he wouldn’t start the car. He kept trying to distract me. Kissing me: but I didn’t like it any more. I was getting nervous. It was too hot, we were sweaty. And Raja turned into a lion. He’d been one before, and I’d liked it, but suddenly it felt – right. Like I finally fit. And the other guy’s daemon was – was a big German Shepherd, lots of teeth, and Raja just knocked her over like she didn’t exist. And I pushed him – out of his car, and drove me and Raja home, even though I was only fifteen. And Raja never changed shape again.” 

“I love you,” Eliot said – smitten by the sound of her voice. By Raja. By the gleam of her eyes in the starlight. 

Margo laughed. “Of course you do. Tell me yours.” 

** 

They ended up in bed together in Margo’s room, which was smaller than Eliot’s, but much nicer. Eliot and Isadora were housed in a room that looked like it had been used for storing garden machinery until approximately three days ago. But he was used to ending up in rooms like that. Always a problem student when it came to housing. 

And, frankly, a lot of other things. 

Once their two daemons were in the room with them, there was barely space for them to stand, so they got onto the bed. And then under the covers – which smelled like perfume and hair-spray. A vibrant scent of _girl_ that Eliot had never experienced in such close proximity before. 

“You know I’m gay,” Eliot said, to cover the bases. 

“Yeah, I’d kind of guessed. Me too.” 

“No, you’re not.” 

“Hey. You can’t go around telling people they’re not gay, asshole.” Margo rolled half on top of him. “I like girls. And boys. But to be honest, girls are more fun.”

“Oh.” She was so close now. Eliot wanted to smooth her hair back from her face, which – what? He kind of wanted to kiss her, too. He didn’t think he wanted to have sex with her though, and he didn’t understand why his heart fluttered like that. He swallowed. “You’re right – girls _are_ more fun.” 

“Sucks to be you.” She leant a little closer: he could smell the alcohol on her breath. He was aware of the warmth and softness of her skin, her silky heat. “You want to kiss me, don’t you?” 

“I mean, I – Yes? I didn’t expect to have some kind of sexuality crisis on my first day.” 

She rolled off him, lying on her back. “Oh, kitten. You’re still gay. We just – We like each other, don’t we? It’s normal to want to kiss someone you like.” 

“Not if – not if you’re friends.” 

“That’s a very narrow interpretation of friendship.” 

Raja stretched out on the rug. Isadora groomed his ears, nuzzling the top of his head with her soft lips. Eliot felt the affection between them: a warmth in his chest and throat, like whiskey. He was dizzy with it.

Margo watched them. “They get it,” she said. “Isadora gets it.” 

Eliot wanted to touch her. He wanted to pull her on top of him, to have her straddle him. He wanted to know what colour her underwear was. He wanted to know her middle name and how she took her coffee. He wanted to make her a mixed CD and write her name on his hand. He’d never felt like this before, not about any of the boys he’d held and fucked and tried to love. This was – He swallowed. He didn’t know friendship could make you feel like your chest was cracking open. 

But it could. It did. 

He touched her, tentatively: the small of her back. God, she was so light when she climbed onto him. And so – soft. He kissed her: her cheek, her mouth, and it was like a warmth flowed through his whole body. Like lying in a field in Indiana and looking up at the sky, and thinking he could fall upwards; fall, impossibly, into that blue – 

He didn’t want it to stop. He could kiss her all day, all night. He was afraid he might cry. 

That would be a degree of humiliation from which he’d never return. He drew back, breathing hard. 

Margo cupped his cheek. Her face softened as she thumbed his jawline. “I’m glad I came to magic school,” she said. 

**

Second year. Eliot was not looking for a boyfriend.

Sure, sometimes he dreamt of meeting a boy he liked enough to keep around: someone he could fall asleep with, and wake up still wanting to see. Someone for whom he could make breakfast, and who’d want to hear his stories. 

But he had Margo. And Isadora. He barely had time for a little casual flirting. Besides, Margo was in charge of his schedule, and she usually decided who they slept with, too. She made good choices for both of them. 

Quentin Coldwater crashed into his life with leaves in his hair, his daemon, a big floppy golden retriever with a lot of tail, covered in mud. He was wearing too many layers and his tie kept tangling around his head. 

Eliot had a soft spot for disasters. His heart fluttered. _Get it together, heart._

While the humans exchanged names, Isadora politely sniffed Quentin’s daemon. The dog didn’t try to lick her or anything gross like that: she tilted her head to one side, a tiny sliver of tongue poking out of her mouth. Instead of backing off like she usually did, Isadora nudged her with the side of her head. It was a tiny touch: inconsequential. But Eliot felt it hum through his body, an electric shock that began in the side of Isadora’s jaw and travelled down her spine and right into Eliot. 

The dog whuffed once, a soft, encouraging sound. She seemed a lot calmer than Quentin, who had already almost fallen over twice in the three minutes Eliot had known him. 

After he learnt that Quentin had made it into Brakebills, Eliot gave the situation some thought, and planned for a little casual flirting with him. He wanted to give him a decent orgasm, teach him how to kiss, and maybe help him buy some pants that fit. That was the extent of Eliot’s plans, and even then, he was going to run it by Bambi first. 

But Isadora had other ideas. Eliot’s life had never been his own, not really. Not when Isadora was there to take charge. The second time they met, Isadora practically _danced_ across the grass towards Quentin, like she was afraid he’d disappear. His golden retriever daemon rolled onto her back, mouth open in a happy doggy grin, and Isadora bent her long neck to nudge at her fur. 

It was embarrassing. Isadora was usually above things like this. She was supposed to keep Eliot from doing anything stupid. Quentin, standing on the path, holding his messenger bag like a shield, watched their daemons, and Eliot thought that he was startled too. It wasn’t usual for two daemons to hit it off so obviously. Especially when their humans barely knew each other. 

But Eliot couldn’t ignore Quentin now. And, to give Isadora her due, he didn’t want to. He might not actually want to _roll around in the grass_ with him, but he was _very cute_ in a helpless sort of way. Eliot wanted to tuck his hair behind his ears for him. 

Probably, he was straight. But Eliot had never met a man with a dog daemon who wasn’t open to at least a little flirtation. Dogs were just like that. Needy. 

So Eliot offered him a smoke. Quentin accepted. The dog put her paw in Isadora’s mouth and Isadora let her. 

“Cora,” Quentin said, rolling his eyes. “She’s... I know goldens are supposed to be friendly, but she’s usually pretty shy.” 

“Yeah, Iz isn’t exactly known for rolling out the welcome mat.” 

It was hard to concentrate. He could feel bubbles of happiness flowing from Isadora to him: he wanted to play. He wanted to – to ruffle Quentin’s hair, nip his jaw, tickle his waist. He took a careful drag on his cigarette instead. He was not a kid; he was not going to play with Quentin. Isadora was losing her mind. 

“Cora has zero chill,” Eliot said, as Cora gave a little play-bow and sprang away, as though Isadora was going to chase her. Ridiculous. Except Isadora followed, bounding after her through the long grass.

Quentin tried to put both his hands in his pockets, remembered he was holding a smoke, and nearly set himself on fire. “Yeah. Like me.” 

“No, you seem very calm. Very put together. Aloof, even.” 

“Like you, then,” Quentin said with a smirk, and because Isadora had just rolled onto her back in order to allow Cora to put both paws on her belly as though she had won their little game of chase, there wasn’t a damn thing Eliot could say to that. 

Eliot could feel Isadora’s pleasure, tickling all over his body. He tried to gauge how Quentin was feeling. He looked simultaneously happy and nervous: but did that mean he was experiencing this as intensely as Eliot was? Or did he just think this was good wholesome fun? 

_Was_ it good wholesome fun? 

If so, Eliot needed to spend a lot more time being wholesome. 

“Well.” Eliot sighed. “They clearly don’t need us.” 

This apparently innocuous sentence appeared to trigger alarm in Quentin. He looked sidelong at Eliot, through his hair, coughed, and said, “Is it true that... That later we have to learn to separate from our daemons?” 

“Hey.” Eliot put his arm around Quentin’s shoulder, which barely counted as touching him given the way Isadora was acting with Cora. “Don’t worry about that yet.” 

“So we will have to?” 

Eliot flicked ash from his cigarette. No chill was apparently a big problem in Quentin’s life. “Look, it’s...” Eliot sighed. “I can’t tell you anything about it yet. But it’s... Not like you think. I mean, it’s not like a horror movie. They don’t cut your daemon off.” 

Eliot’s chest hurt just thinking about it. He wished he hadn’t put it like that, because Quentin’s mouth turned down and his eyes went wide and anxious. 

Cora romped back across the grass to them, Isadora following her at a delicate trot. Cora obviously knew that Quentin was upset, and she pressed her head into his thighs and stared up at him with intense affection. Quentin looked a little unfocused as he played with her ear. 

Isadora, when she reached Eliot, nudged him joyfully, and he nearly lost his balance. 

“It must be nice,” Eliot said, “Having a reasonably sized daemon.” 

“Oh, Cora still manages to take up the whole bed.” 

“I’m smaller than _you_ ,” Cora said. It was the first time Eliot had heard her speak: daemons generally only spoke to their humans and to other daemons. Her voice was deeper than he expected, but soft and pleasant. Eliot found himself picturing Quentin spooned around the dog, while she lay on her side, her legs stretched across the mattress. Quentin’s head would be tucked into the side of her neck. They’d probably both drool. Why was that so cute? 

Emotions. Goddamnit. 

He lit another cigarette. 

Once he’d taken a drag from it, Quentin took it from his fingers, and leant into Eliot’s space a little as he pulled on it. This was a surprise: Eliot’s experience, straight boys were weird about sharing cigarettes. 

Cora, still sitting on Quentin’s feet, nudged Isadora’s leg. A loop of feedback: Isadora to Cora to Quentin. Eliot could feel it all, as though all three of them were touching him. He snatched the cigarette back, and took a steadying drag, but it didn’t help, because he was thinking about Quentin’s mouth on it, and the brush of Quentin’s hand against his own. 

_Fuck._

**

They spent a lot of time together outdoors that fall. So much so that Eliot worried he was getting a ruddy farmer’s complexion, like his father’s.

Afterwards, he had trouble remembering exactly what they said to each other. They walked a lot. He knew that they joked about Isadora and Cora while the two daemons played with each other. As time passed, he realised he’d shared things with Quentin he’d never expected to tell anyone but Bambi: where he was from, how he’d learnt about magic. He knew a lot about Quentin, too: he remembered the wind blowing into Quentin’s face as he talked about the times he’d spent in hospitals, how alone he’d been. 

The leaves crunched under their feet; their hands and arms brushed together. 

“Cora settled when I was in hospital,” Quentin told him, not too long after they’d first met. “Julia – you know Julia, she was at the herbalists’ party on Friday, she’s got a blazer...” 

“Do I?” Eliot tilted his head. “I don’t go to herbalist parties.”

“You were at that one! Until Isadora dragged you out.” 

“Well, I was probably drunk.” 

“Anyway.” Quentin stopped walking at the edge of the tangled shrubbery. “Julia came to visit me, with games and puzzles, but I couldn’t concentrate on any of them. Then her daemon, he’s a Peregrine falcon, he’d already settled, landed on Cora’s head and started grooming her ears. And it was... The first time I’d felt good in so long. That affection, between Julia and me and Cora and Aster.” As he spoke, Cora returned from playing with Isadora, a golden shape in the dusk, and leant against Quentin’s legs. She looked up at him, and he knelt to brush leaves from the long curls on her chest. “Cora had been sleeping a lot. Me too. I’d barely noticed she was a golden most of the time. When Julia left, she put her head in my lap and she... We hadn’t been touching much for weeks. It’s like we don’t care about each other when things are really hard. But I pet her, and she said she wasn’t going to change. I thought I’d be... Disappointed, because I always wanted a cool daemon, you know? Like Isadora. But it felt right. I think it’s supposed to feel right, and it did.” He rubbed his fingers together: he’d forgotten his gloves again. “She’s cool, in her own way.” 

Cora, drooling, eyes full of love, wasn’t cool in any way. But she was beautiful, and his heart brimmed with affection. He wanted to hold her, to whisper into her ears how proud he was of her, to rub the soft fur of her belly. He swallowed hard, a raw feeling in his throat. He’d never do those things – he couldn’t want those things. 

But Quentin was part of his life now, woven into the fabric of Eliot’s days. They made time for each other, even though they were busy. Quentin didn’t go to many of the parties Eliot hosted, and he devoted a lot of time to studying with Julia, as well as an intense blonde girl with glasses, and an absolute snack with a surly expression, whose names he kept telling Eliot, and that Eliot kept forgetting. Meanwhile, Eliot and Bambi had their own lives to attend to. But it was worth carving out time for his friendship with Quentin. It was separate from all of Eliot’s other ties – secret, special, a space just for the two of them. 

Of course, the time they spent together didn’t go unnoticed. Margo kept asking when they were going to bang. Everyone seemed to assume they were dating. Eliot kept expecting Quentin to get weird about it, but instead he blushed a little and wrapped his arms around his chest, and followed Eliot outside. 

Then Quentin was assigned to the Physical Kids’ Cottage, and Eliot didn’t know whether to be happy or freaked out. 

**

Eliot touched Raja most mornings. Which was – OK, it was a little weird, because some married couples went their whole lives without touching each others’ daemons, but to be fair some married couples went their whole lives with doing anal either, and Margo and Eliot were never going to be those kind of people.

Not that they were married, although it was something they liked to talk about, because marriage might be an outdated institution, but why should the boring monogamous people get all the big, glamorous events? Why couldn’t you have a river of champagne to celebrate how awesome your best friend was? When they were up late, they went over clothes and fireworks, and who they’d invite to fuck on their wedding night, and the whole thing became more and more queer and magical. Eliot liked to picture it: sunshine, music, them, beautiful in coordinating outfits, crowns settled in their curls. 

Anyway, lots of people _did_ touch each others’ daemons, if they liked and trusted each other enough: usually people who were passionately in love. And he was in love with Margo, no way to deny it, although he didn’t tell her often because it made her kind of cranky. 

Early in their friendship, Margo had asked why he never decorated Isadora. Isadora had been very into the idea once she realised that Margo meant that she, too, could wear pretty and shiny things, and look extra regal. 

“God, she’s going to be a nightmare,” Eliot said. 

Margo gathered some boxes from her vanity: gold mascara, sequins, and then she’d stood in front of Isadora and – stopped. Eliot had wondered why she’d stopped, because her touching Iz seemed like the most natural thing in the world. And then he felt in a rush what it meant, what it would mean – that you only touched the daemon of someone who was a part of you. _Of someone whose name is written on your heart,_ Eliot thought, and then felt betrayed by his own sappiness. 

“I want you to,” Isadora said, at the same time Eliot said, “It’s OK, Bambi.” 

“Consent is important.” Margo tried to turn into a joke, but her expression was a little awed as she reached up to caress Isadora’s nuzzle. 

Eliot felt it through his whole body. It wasn’t a taboo because it was sexual, he realised: it wasn’t sexual. It was a taboo because it was – it was _so tender._ He felt how much he cared for Margo and how much she cared for him: the tenderness rushing round and round through them in a circle of joy. 

“Eliot should touch me, too,” Raja said. Eliot couldn’t speak: he did as he was told, kneeling on the floor in front of him. They were almost on eye level. He buried his fingers in Raja’s mane, and he heard the lion purr. 

As time passed, it became easier to touch Raja or to have Margo touch Isadora without any of them becoming completely overwhelmed. Like everything between them it was an intimacy that they could allow only from each other, a trust they felt in their bones. A magic that didn’t have a name. But also something they didn’t want to talk about too much, because loving someone didn’t mean you had to be mushy and needy all the time. 

Mornings when Margo wasn’t there, when she didn’t thread beads into Isadora’s mane, or burnish her hooves, or just brush and smooth her coat, were barely worth getting up for. Eliot missed Raja’s warm breath on his face, the way he’d lean his forehead against Raja’s, and the wiry feeling of Raja’s mane as he smoothed it with his fingers. Mornings were full of love, a place of quiet and affection, and Eliot didn’t know how he’d grown up so cold, so rejected, and come to this. 

About a week after Quentin moved into the Cottage, Eliot was threading a red bead into the hair by Raja’s ear when Quentin pushed his door open. 

Quentin had been spending a lot of time in Eliot’s room. The previous evening, instead of working on his assignment from Fogg, he’d listened to Quentin’s incredibly nerdy Dungeons and Dragons stories while Cora lay across the foot of the bed. Isadora dozed, her half-open eyes resting on Cora, and content and laziness suffused Eliot. 

“Eliot, can I –”

Quentin stopped. They all stopped. Eliot felt like he’d been caught – been caught – 

He didn’t know what. There was no comparison. He wouldn’t have felt exposed like this if Quentin had seen him watching porn or fucking someone. 

“Sure, come right in, Coldwater. No need to knock,” Margo drawled. 

Yesterday, Eliot had said, “Why bother knocking? We always want to see you,” so that wasn’t completely fair. He carefully removed his hand from Raja’s mane, but stayed kneeling where he was. He glanced at Isadora, who was still leaning into Margo. Margo’s fingers moved distractedly through her mane. Cora’s tail wasn’t wagging, which was unusual, but she looked at Isadora, too, and put her head onto one side. 

Eliot swallowed. “Come in, Q. Do you need something?” 

Quentin shut the door. Leant against it. Didn’t speak. 

Cora stood beside Raja, her fur brushing against Raja’s flank. Her tail wagged once, questioningly. 

“Why don’t you pet me?” she said. This wasn’t the first time she’d spoken to Eliot, but mostly she preferred to communicate with Isadora. Her voice was always huskier than Eliot expected.

“Cora. You can’t ask someone that,” Quentin said. 

“But I want him to pet me! I’ve never wanted anyone but you to pet me before.” Her ears went down. “He’s petting Raja.” 

Quentin spluttered. “That’s different. Margo and Eliot are – are special, you know that.” 

Cora looked up at Eliot. Dark brown eyes melting and sad. Eliot – Eliot realised he had no ability to resist her. That he would never even want to resist her. 

“Aren’t we special too?” Cora said. 

He’d already been kneeling for Raja. He was almost on Cora’s level. He held out his hand towards her. “Yes, you’re special.”

Cora sniffed his fingers. The very tips of his fingers: he could feel the whuff of her exhaled breath, the tiny whiskey hairs around her lips. Then a tip of pink tongue licked his thumb.

 _Oh._ Eliot felt – felt a throb of pleasure, of emotion, travelling from his throat to his toes. Cora thrust her head forward, and nudged him. Carefully, he ran his thumb along her silky ear. 

He heard a thud. Quentin had slid down the door, and was sitting in front of it. Mouth open, big brown eyes wide: expression mirroring Cora’s. 

“El,” Quentin said, voice thin and uncertain. Eliot couldn’t – couldn’t leave him sitting there. Looking so – Like he was feeling _so much_ , the same way Eliot was – 

Eliot had to touch him, to be near him. He – he basically _crawled_ the few feet of floor to Quentin, legs trembling like a fawn’s, to press his face into the crook of Quentin’s neck, and Quentin clung to him, arms digging into Eliot’s torso and, oh – _oh fuck_ it was so much – 

“What about me?” Isadora said. Clip of hoof as she crossed the floor. 

“Oh my God,” Eliot said into Quentin’s neck, and felt Quentin’s fingers digging into his ribs. 

Isadora nosed at Quentin’s forehead, and Eliot wasn’t sure whether he gasped or Quentin did. Then Quentin whimpered: anxious, distressed. He pushed Eliot away, staggering to his feet. Cora whined, ears flattening, pressing herself away from Eliot, into the floor. 

“I – I have to –” Quentin fumbled with the doorknob, almost falling over as the door swung inwards towards him. He tumbled through it. 

Eliot heard his retreating footsteps, but Cora stood on the threshold. She looked back at him, tail down, and said, “C-come after us. Soon,” before she ran after Quentin, inexorably pulled by her tie to him.

“This is quite a goddamn morning,” Margo said. 

**

Eliot found Quentin lying on his back on the wall outside the Welters ground. Cora was stretched over his chest, her face tucked into his neck. Quentin smoked. Not much time had passed, but enough that Eliot felt anxious, heart pounding. 

Quentin didn’t miss class. No matter how exhausted or hungover he was; no matter how gross a cold he had, he dragged himself to his desk. But here he was, blithely missing Introduction to Circumstances for Spellwork. Eliot felt guilty, confused. He didn’t know what to do.

Isadora stepped around him, and stood by Quentin, looking down her regal nose at him. “Hey, Isadora,” Quentin said, voice soft. 

Cora’s tail thumped once against Quentin’s leg, and she sat up, touching her nose to Isadora’s. Eliot felt the warmth between them, and was reassured. He decided he could handle this, whatever it was. 

“Q –” Eliot began. 

“That was...” Quentin sat up, looping his arm around Cora’s neck. “I...” 

He looked at Cora, and she pressed her nose into his face before turning to Eliot. “We’ve only had sex th-three times,” she said, “and it was – it wasn’t intimate like that. We’ve – _I’ve_ never wanted anyone to touch me before. We didn’t know what it would be like.” 

Eliot sat on the wall, on the opposite side of Quentin from Cora, careful not to touch her. Quentin looked up at him, from under his stringy hair, face flushed and anxious. Eliot felt a wave of fondness he’d previously only experienced around Bambi. 

“It is a lot. I... I found it really intense, too.” God, he wished they were having this conversation at 11pm and they were at least a little drunk. Nine in the morning was no time to talk about emotions. “With Margo, it’s... She’s my best friend, and I know we... I know people don’t usually touch their best friend’s daemons, but we...” 

“She’s special,” Quentin said, gently and with complete understanding. “I know.” 

“It’s still intense. You kind of get used to it? But at the same time, you don’t, really. And with you it was...” He swallowed. Took the cigarette from Quentin’s fingers, and took a drag on it. “I don’t know, Q. If I’d been thinking even a little, I wouldn’t have let it happen like that.” 

“We like you,” Isadora said, her head so close to Cora’s that she was almost touching her fur. “We haven’t ever liked anyone the way we like you.” 

“Iz...” Eliot finished the cigarette. “I’m trying not to freak him out here.” 

“You’re not,” Quentin said. He still wasn’t looking at Eliot, but Eliot thought he could see a film of tears in Quentin’s eyes. Quentin shuffled towards him and leant his head against Eliot’s shoulder, and Eliot had no recourse but to put his arms around Quentin, and press his nose into the top of Quentin’s head. Quentin made a little sound, a sigh, and nuzzled closer, like he’d been waiting for months to do this, and Eliot felt more things than a person was ever supposed to feel at 9.15 on a Monday. 

Cora wagged her tail so hard Eliot could hear it thumping against Quentin’s thigh. 

** 

In the dim light, Eliot looked over at the shadows of Cora and Isadora. They were lying so close that they seemed like one mass of gold fur. Cora’s head rested on Isadora’s shoulder, and, from time to time, Isadora bent her head to snuffle at Cora’s fur. 

“I was going to take this slow,” Eliot said. Quentin was lying on top of him, a warm, dense weight. His breathing slowly evening out. When he raised his head to look at Eliot, his expression was blissed out, hazy. 

“We’ve never been good at slow.” Quentin settled his chin on Eliot’s chest. He stretched his legs luxuriously, his small, squirming movement reminding Eliot of how close and how naked they were. “Fourth time was definitely the best time.” 

Eliot snorted. “Are you going to keep on counting?” 

“Well.” Quentin shrugged. “It’s not like it’s hard to keep track.” 

“You have no idea how many times I’m going to absolutely ruin you.” Eliot smoothed back the hair from Quentin’s face. “You’ll forget how to count in double digits.” 

He meant to sound sexy, but he yawned as he spoke. His hips pleasantly sore from thrusting his cock against Quentin’s. His jaw aching. His mouth still bitter with the taste of Quentin’s spunk. The image, now etched in his mind, of Quentin in his lap, his legs around Eliot’s waist. 

“Bring it on.” Quentin settled his head back on Eliot’s chest, and Eliot ran his fingers through the tangles of Quentin’s hair. 

“I really thought you were straight.” He’d been expecting him to spook, even when Quentin initiated their first kiss. Even now, with Quentin lying here, lazy and tender in his arms. 

Quentin shrugged. “This situation doesn’t seem heterosexual to you?” 

“If it is, I’ve been very misinformed.” 

“It’s just good, old-fashioned heterosexual snuggling,” Quentin said. “Very wholesome.” 

Eliot snorted. “You are: you’re very wholesome. You’re the most wholesome boy I’ve ever had in my life.” 

A pause. “Is wholesome... good?” 

“I wouldn’t have said so, a year ago. But you’ve broken my frame of reference.” 

Quentin yawned. “That’s much more flattering. After a brief rest period, I think I should keep on breaking it.” 

The room was darkening further. Eliot was sleepy too, but he wanted to just – be here. To feel Quentin against his skin, to listen to his breath growing deeper. That was all he’d need – 

Suddenly, two paws dug into the pillow next to Eliot’s head. Cora peered at him, her tail wagging eagerly, knocking into his night stand. 

“Will you pet _me_ now? I’ve been waiting and waiting.” 

**

Eliot was not his best self when Quentin went to Brakebills South. Margo tried to be understanding, but Eliot couldn’t sleep or open a book, and magic went sideways in his fingers, and he didn’t care about cooking meals or Encanto Occulto or really anything except drinking by himself in front of the fire. He snapped at Margo so often she hit him over the head with a text book, not gently, and then Isadora stepped on Raja’s foot, and Raja growled at her.

It was awful, and Eliot was ashamed of himself. 

He wasn’t sure what he’d done to the rest of the physical kids, but everyone at the Cottage avoided him like he was a rabid bear, even the third years who usually rolled their eyes at him. He – The problems was he – _couldn’t_ stop imagining Quentin and Cora out there in the cold, with the snow banked over the windows, and the lack of food and the constant mocking and – 

The exercises. 

The goal of Brakebills South was to stretch the bond between Magician and daemon. Supposedly, this stretching gave them greater access to their powers, and they understood who they were and what they could do in a way they couldn’t if their bond didn’t change. Some people were good at it, as though the tie between them and their daemon was a noose they’d been planning to slip for years. Neither Eliot nor Margo had done well: Eliot wasn’t sure he’d learnt anything other than pain, and he never wanted to see Isadora suffer like that again. She’d grown thin and she’d shivered and turned flighty and afraid in a way he’d never seen her. Myakovsky enjoyed spooking her and mocked him for having such a highly strung daemon. 

Eliot didn’t think being at Brakebills South had taught him anything. He was a powerful caster when he arrived there, and when he returned, still whole, he had more raw power than most people. 

Mostly, as he drank, he dwelt on the final exercise. Unlike the rest of them, the last one wasn’t obligatory. At the centre of the South Pole, in the strange polar night, there was a space that a Magician could cross but a daemon couldn’t. Myakovsky would leave the students at its edge, cold and alone, and they could either cling to their daemons and struggle through the snow to the portal that brought them back to Brakebills, or they could leave their daemon and start walking out into the cold, south and further south, until the bond broke and they could travel infinitely far from their daemon. 

The students who’d done it had returned to Brakebills pale and jumpy, but very superior, with a blank look in their eyes. 

Eliot was afraid. He hadn’t gone through with it. Neither had Margo. But Quentin was – Quentin was stubborn and really good at punishing himself, and was sure he didn’t belong at Brakebills, not really, so he was waiting to prove himself. Myakovsky’s methods were designed to get to him. He would feel alone and stupid, and he would – 

At night, Eliot pictured Cora by herself in the cold. Left at the edge of the world in the dark. Without Quentin. Without anyone. Knowing that Quentin didn’t love her enough to stay with her. That he wanted power more than he wanted her. 

Eliot saw it, and he couldn’t stand it. He should have spoken to Quentin about it, he should have explained, he should have told him not to go through with it – He couldn’t believe he’d let this happen. Could he get to Brakebills South now? Could he rescue Quentin? Was he too late? 

He drank and didn’t do anything, and Isadora leant her head on the back of his chair, gazing at nothing. 

It was unbearable. 

He hadn’t spoken to Margo for three days, and he couldn’t stand it. At least he could – he could go to her. 

He ended up crawling into bed next to her. It was 4am. “Bambi,” he whispered. 

She was lying on her stomach, seemingly oblivious, but Raja, who took up around eighty percent of the bed, growled. Eliot slotted his body next to Margo’s, trying to find a place for too-long limbs without disturbing her or her daemon. 

“Fuck you,” Margo mumbled into her pillow. “You smell terrible.” 

He’d been smoking. She only grudgingly tolerated cigarettes. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Margo was quiet. Then she rolled onto her side and squinted at him. “Are you?” 

“I’m a dick, and I can’t do anything without you.” 

“That’s true.” Margo sighed. “You’re such a ballsack when your boyfriend is away.” 

“I know.” 

She lifted her arm, and Eliot shuffled closer, snuggling into her side. She was sleeping naked, which wasn’t unusual for her, and she was unbelievably warm and soft. Eliot put his hand on her back, feeling the smallness of her bones, the silkiness of her skin. God. He didn’t deserve her. She hooked her leg over his thighs, and he felt as though he’d been cold for weeks and he was finally thawing out. 

“Do you need to talk or can I go back to sleep?” she asked. 

He stroked her hair. He wanted to tell her why he was scared, but what was the point? “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.” 

**

Quentin came back early.

Earlier than Eliot had hoped. 

He was mixing cocktails for Margo, trying to pretend that drinking out of doors counted as a healthy diversion, and that he wasn’t going to black out later tonight. 

Then he saw two small figures, crossing the grass. They were wearing the white Brakebills South uniforms, and walking slowly, unsteadily, as though they expected the ground to shift under their feet. 

It was – Was – 

But Eliot didn’t dare – 

Until he saw a golden retriever and his breath stung his chest. She stuck to the heels of one of the people, her tail down, but she paused once or twice to sniff in the long grass. _Cora._

“Quentin!” Margo raised her hand before Eliot did, waving. 

Alice was with him. They were walking so close they were practically holding hands. Eliot had never seen them in sync with one another before. He didn’t really know Alice, but from what he could tell, she and Quentin mostly bickered about spellwork together. 

When they were close enough, Margo pushed the drinks Eliot had made into their hands. “Here! You need these more than we do.” 

“Did you know we were coming?” Quentin held the cocktail like he didn’t know what it was for. His face was thin, wind-burnt. 

When he looked up at Eliot, Eliot had to hug immediately. There was no option. Quentin’s fingers trembled around the Martini glass, and he spilled most of it down Eliot’s back. Eliot didn’t care. God, his boy smelt terrible: unwashed skin, unwashed hair, greasy food. It didn’t matter. He was _here_. Eliot ran his hands over Quentin’s spine, his upper arms, pressing his face to Quentin’s cheek. 

Eliot’s heart pounded. 

“Fuck,” Eliot hissed. “Fuck. Shit.” 

“Good to know you’re still so articulate.” Quentin leant into him, like he was sinking into Eliot. His skin was cold to the touch. 

Cora whined. She nudged her way between them, and surged up to Eliot, putting her paws on his shoulders. The sudden weight made him overbalance, and he collapsed onto one of the lawn chairs. Cora climbed into his lap, pushing her nose into his ear, keening and nudging him, her tail thumping. Eliot thought he was going to _melt_ with emotion: the feeling of Quentin’s daemon in his arms, so near and so close, and so clearly the same Cora. She hadn’t been abandoned. She and Quentin were _whole_. Tears pricked his eyes. 

“Cora, you’re not a lapdog,” Quentin said. 

“Yes she is.” Eliot buried his face in her fur, holding her, rocking her. Isadora nudged Quentin, snuffing into his ear, and Eliot felt that circle of joy, of completeness, that he’d been afraid he’d never know again. 

“Ignore them,” Margo was saying to Alice. “They can’t help it, they have too many emotions.” 

Alice perched awkwardly on the chair. “We couldn’t do it,” she said. She was pale too: tired and pinched. Her hands wrapped protectively around her chest. “We – we just – we’ve already lost so much of ourselves.” 

“It’s OK.” Margo’s voice was brisk, but Eliot knew she was trying to be comforting. “It’s just Myakovsky’s usual bullshit.” 

“Hellebore hated it there.” Her snake daemon was coiled around her neck, looped tight, his head hidden in her hair. Like Cora, he was trying to get as close to her as possible, his whole body saying _never, never,_ never _will we be separated_. “He was so cold all the time.” Alice sniffed. “It was horrible.” 

Quentin reached for her hand, and squeezed it. They shared a look, eyes full of compassion. 

“The others stayed,” Quentin said. “All of them. Even Julia.” 

Eliot never wanted to put Cora down. He couldn’t – Nobody should touch someone else’s daemon like this in public. But he – he couldn’t stop. “I didn’t want you to. Isadora and I didn’t do it.” 

“I know. I figured.” Quentin shut his eyes for a second. “That made me brave enough to walk away.” 

Alice nodded. “I’m glad you did. Maybe I’d have let him, Myakovsky – push me into it, if you hadn’t. He kept saying how strong I was, how Hellebore was holding me back, and – I felt that he was wrong. In my bones. Hellebore and I are better together.” 

Her face scrunched up. She stroked her daemon, and his head emerged from her hair. He whispered something into her ear, too quiet for them to hear. 

“You did the right thing,” Margo said. “Fuck him, and fuck the others, too. Our daemons make us better.” 

“It wouldn’t be worth it,” Eliot said, quietly. “Not ever.” At last, he let Cora go, and she half-climbed and half-fell off his lap onto the ground beside him. His skin felt raw all over. Isadora bent her head to snuffle at her, and didn’t show protest even when Cora got slobber on her nuzzle. 

Eliot put his arm around Quentin, because he couldn’t _not_ touch him. He wanted to – to get on his knees and lick Quentin, his sweaty armpits, his musky thighs. His hairy little stomach. He wanted to remind himself of every part of Quentin, so much so it made him dizzy. He grabbed the vodka bottle just to have something to do with his hands. 

“Mix another drink, El,” Margo said. “And sit down, Quentin, you look terrible.” She sat, too, facing him, and put her chin on her fist. “So how traumatised are you guys?” 

There was silence. Eliot wished she hadn’t asked, and busied himself with the cocktail shaker. 

“Myakovsky wanted me to have sex with Alice.” Quentin’s voice was flat. He looked at Alice, and looked away again. Her daemon hissed, uncoiling, a flash of green scale and black eyes peering out at them. 

“He what.” Margo spoke without a question mark. 

“We – uh. We ended up together a lot.” Alice touched Hellebore, and he curled around her fingers and flowed down her arm, like a vivid, living bracelet. “Quentin and I, that is. We’re friends.” 

She looked at Quentin for confirmation as she said this, as though he might shrug her off. As though Quentin would ever deny someone his friendship: and he nodded, touching her wrist again, squeezing. 

Eliot felt a tightness in his throat. These two: they seemed so small here, so vulnerable. He couldn’t imagine them at the mercy of Myakovsky. 

“H-he said it would loosen us up. I said Quentin already had a boyfriend, and he laughed.” Alice was staring past Eliot, as though the patch of blue sky behind his ear was fascinating. “So he turned us into foxes.” 

“It was –” Quentin pressed his hands together, tendons white. “I knew y-your daemon goes somewhere inside you, when you transform into an animal. But we – we’d already been trying to be apart, and it hurt, and it was so frightening with Cora just _gone_...” 

Eliot’s heart pounded. “Then what happened?” 

“He threw us out in the cold.” Alice shrugged. “I don’t know. I think he thought we’d – have sex for warmth, or something? But we just – huddled together. It was – after a while, it was kind of nice, to be a fox. I started wanting to catch penguins.” 

Margo snorted. “OK, firstly, fuck Myakovsky. Honestly, is there a way we can kill him? Or at least keep him away from people forever?” Her teeth were bared. If anyone could kill Myakovsky, it would be Margo. “And secondly, you’re both way more sensible than I thought. I hope you killed lots of penguins.” 

Quentin shook his head. “It got – better, after that. Because I – I realised he had nothing to teach me. I just wanted to get back – whole.” 

“And we did.” Alice spoke very gently. 

Quentin smiled at her: the first real smile Eliot had seen from him. He dimpled, and Cora thumped her tail, and Eliot felt something inside himself soften. As though things might be OK. As though it were possible for life to work. 

“And you did,” Eliot said. 

**

“I’m sorry, I...” Quentin rolled onto his back, frustrated, tugging at his hair. “Fuck.” 

Eliot remembered the times he’d failed to rise to the occasion, and how humiliated he’d felt. He settled next to Quentin, touching his cheek with his nose. “Don’t apologise. Sometimes it doesn’t happen.”

“But I want it to! A lot!” Teeth gritted, jaw clenched. 

“I know.” Eliot put his hand over Quentin’s, so the boy would stop trying to tug his hair out at the roots. “That can make it harder.” 

“Not this time.” He rolled his eyes, and Eliot was relieved that Quentin wasn’t too upset to spot a pun. He put his arm over Quentin’s warm, furry chest, pulling him close. 

Quentin sniffed. “I can still do something for you? I want to. I didn’t spend all this time alone not to make the most of having you now.” 

“Sometimes it’s OK to just talk. I think that’s part of being boyfriends.” Eliot was surprised by how little frustration _he_ felt – Michael, in Sophmore year, had made him feel like his lack of boner was the worst possible insult and inconvenience, and afterwards Eliot had got so drunk he’d hoped he could black out Michael’s face forever – but now he was on the other side of the equation, he just felt comfortable and fond. He settled his head into the crook of Quentin’s neck: clean skin, warmth, fine silky hairs.

“Only when one of them can’t get it up.” Quentin chewed his lip. “I’m such a... I’m so bad at everything.” 

Eliot nestled closer. God, he really could lie here forever. It was – kind of scary, to realise that. Vulnerable. How did he get so goddamn fond so fast? 

“Listen: baby, I missed you. I was so afraid that – that you wouldn’t be the same when you came back. I’m just grateful that you’re here. I... I spent most of the last year lying in bed with Bambi, and talking – and, yes, occasionally she sticks a silicone cock up my ass, but that’s not, like, the central part of our relationship – and it was... Probably the happiest I’ve ever been.” He felt Quentin relax a little, his toes tickling his thigh. Eliot went on, “Mostly I think what love is built on is – is lying in bed with someone and coming up with dumb jokes and complaining about other people. More than sex, honestly – which is not to say we _won’t_ have a lot of sex soon.” 

Quentin’s cheeks flushed. “You...” He was chewing his lip so hard it was growing raw at the edges. “I’ve never felt anything like this before.” 

Eliot leant his forehead against Quentin’s. Lowered his voice, as though sharing a secret: “Neither have I.” 

He heard a thud from near the bed, and then felt a tail thud into the bed frame. Cora: trying to be subtle. “Did you say you _love_ us?” Her voice awed and hopeful. 

Of course that word had rung like a bell for Quentin. He was a golden retriever: and what golden didn’t just want to be loved? 

“Yes, we love you,” Isadora said. She sounded almost bored. Usually she stayed quiet during sex, so he was surprised to see that she’d come over to stand by the bed, too. She and Cora liked to lie together when Quentin and Eliot were in bed, and seemed to doze. Eliot had the feeling that they experienced a sort of passive pleasure from their human counterparts’ activities, making them content and sleepy. But they were both alert now. 

Eliot felt exposed, with three pairs of eyes looking at him, like they were all waiting for him to make a speech. Cora’s butt wiggled, her tail beginning to wag. She jumped up onto the bed. The big warm weight of dog forced Quentin and Eliot to roll closer: almost on top of each other. Cora looked at him, tip of her tongue poking from her mouth, her eyes huge and hopeful. 

Fuck. 

“How could anyone not love you?” Eliot said to her. 

Cora tilted her head. “A lot of people don’t. But we love you, both of you.” 

Quentin was starting to look like he might cry, or explode. He rubbed his face. “Oh, God, Cora. Have you considered El might not want to hear this right now?” 

Eliot ruffled Quentin’s hair, in the same way he might play with Cora’s ears. “I do. Of course I do.” 

“See?” Cora rolled over, twisting the blankets underneath her, a hard paw unexpectedly jabbing into Eliot’s thigh. She settled on her back, all four legs in the air. She was looking at Eliot over the barrier of her own belly-fluff. 

“You should pet her,” Isadora said. “I can’t reach into her armpits the way she likes.” 

“Can’t have that.” Eliot sat up, reaching for her. He felt the rush of wonder – now familiar, but still powerful – at touching her, Quentin’s daemon, this beautiful, golden part of Quentin, and then dug his fingers into the long hairs on her tummy. Cora gave a little sigh of pleasure. 

Quentin wrapped his arms around himself. He gave a tiny moan, too, a sound of surprise and happiness, and leant his head on Eliot’s shoulder. 

“So.” His voice was very soft. 

Eliot kissed his forehead. “So.” 

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you, when I was out there. In the Antarctic. I just wanted to come h-home to you.” 

“I had a small breakdown without you. Bambi’s kind of pissed at me, but she’ll get over it.” Eliot’s hand stopped moving in Cora’s fur, and she thrust one of her paws at him, indicating she would like him to keep scritching, please. 

“I didn’t...” Quentin swallowed. “It’s so much. I never expected anything like this.” 

“Me neither. I absolutely was not looking for a boyfriend this year.” 

Silence, and then Isadora laughed. “You always want a boyfriend. _I_ wasn’t looking for a boyfriend. But I’m glad I have one.” 

She stretched over the bed to nudge her nose into Quentin’s hand. Quentin stroked her. And there it was again: that ever-repeating joy. 

**

They were sitting on the Brakebills sign and smoking when they spotted Margo crossing the grass. She hadn’t come back to the Cottage the previous evening, but even with tangled hair, she was still breathtaking: her eyes gleamed; her hair shone; her clothes folded around her like the robes of a queen. Raja had red and black ribbons woven into his mane.

She smiled and rolled her eyes at them. “Are you hanging around here all day? Do you ever go to class?” 

“It’s kind of hard when most of your class are on a traumatic daemon quest.” Quentin said it lightly, but his hand automatically went to Cora’s head, burrowing his fingertips into her fur. “It’s just me and Alice right now, it’s really intimidating.” 

“So lounging around here and chain-smoking is clearly the answer.” 

Eliot swung his legs off the sign and took a step towards her so he could give her a hug. She wriggled. “You smell like an ashtray.” 

“Who were you fucking last night?” 

Raja answered, “Petra, from the herbalist house. And Felicity.” 

“Sounds like a good night.” Even though she’d complained, Margo still nestled against his chest. 

“Felicity had never been fucked by a girl before.” Bambi looked up at him. “I think I gave her some things to think about...” 

“Is that...?” Quentin’s voice was faint and uncertain: if Eliot wasn’t so attuned to him, he might not have heard. They both looked over: Quentin was standing on the sign, staring at the sky. Eliot squinted up too: there was a speck up there, a bird, far away. 

And then... Something in him knew that it wasn’t a bird. He didn’t know how, but as surely as he knew Isadora was part of him, he knew the speck was a daemon. A daemon, alone in the sky. 

The speck grew larger: soon Eliot could make out wings, greyish blue. A hawk. Closer: a peregrine falcon. It was heading directly for Quentin. 

“Aster! Aster!” Cora was so excited that her voice broke, and she began to yip. 

The peregrine landed above them, on edge of the roof. He tilted his head, then opened his wings again. He landed directly on Cora’s head. Those talons, sharp and powerful, clung so delicately to Cora’s fur that they barely seemed to disturb it. He folded his wings, and nestled down into himself. Suddenly he looked very small, and very alone. 

Cora tried to look up at him, realised she couldn’t, and sat patiently. 

Quentin knelt in front of him. “Aster. Where’s Julia? Are you all right?” 

“No,” Aster said. He folded and unfolded his wings, and then hopped off Cora’s head and down between her paws. Eliot had seen Aster before, of course, but he hadn’t given him a lot of attention: Julia was polite to Eliot, but aloof, and Aster had seemed the same. Quick-witted and self-contained: Eliot thought they both bossed around Quentin a lot. Now, he couldn’t get over how small Aster was. He wanted to gather Aster into his hands, hold him over his heart, because a daemon wasn’t supposed to be alone, not like this. A daemon needed human warmth. 

Cora curled protectively around him, but didn’t lick him as she might have licked Isadora. 

“It hurt,” Aster said. He was speaking more to Cora than the others: his vivid eyes rested on Isadora too, and Raja. “She left me alone, and she started to walk, and she kept walking. I thought she would come back. I thought...” He was silent. “We waited and waited, and then we felt it: something stretching. Rending. Sometimes I’ve flown too high, and it’s hurt us...” 

Cora made a little sound of distress, and Isadora crossed the space between them, nudging her. 

Aster continued, “And it was like – like something opened. I could feel the – the magic. I could sense it – taste it. I c-could feel Julia feeling it. It was – too much. And so beautiful.” 

“Where is she? Where’s Julia?” Quentin asked. 

Aster ducked his head. He didn’t know. 

“She’ll come back for you,” Margo said. “Aster, she’s coming back.” 

He nestled into Cora for a moment, as though desperate for her warmth. Then he leapt from between her paws, and in one swift movement glided back to the corner of the roof. He looked down at them. “You’re different from her,” he said. “But i-it’s her I love.” 

“You can stay with us,” Quentin said. “You can stay with me and Cora. We’ll – we’ll look after each other.” 

Aster’s wings opened. “I’m not like you, either. I’m like her. There are... There are things I can learn, now that I’m by myself that I couldn’t before.” He leapt from the roof, and into the air, into his element. “If you see her, tell her... Tell her she’ll find me when I want to be found.” 

Cora sat on her haunches, and barked, loud and long. But he was already soaring, up, up, further than any of them could see. 

Quentin knelt by Cora, pulling her into his arms. Raja jumped up next to them, and licked her face: his tongue was so big he easily covered Cora’s head with one swipe. 

“Fuck,” Margo said. Her arms were wrapped over her stomach: she looked pale. 

They were crazy, Eliot thought, the Magicians who let their daemons go. Aster was right: they _were_ different, and he didn’t think he’d ever understand them. 

“They’ve always...” Quentin swallowed. “They’ve always known what they wanted.” 

“Leaving him by himself.” Margo was angry. “Walking off like that. It’s fucked up. They’re all just... The teachers tell them to hurt themselves, and they do. They just _do.”_

Raja’s tail swished. He paced, mirroring Margo’s unhappy movements. Isadora nudged at Cora, concerned. 

“I know, Bambi.” Eliot wanted to go to her, but he couldn’t move. His skin prickled; he felt dizzy. He needed a drink. He felt Aster’s loss: the loneliness, the big brutal cold of the sky. That perhaps what he and Julia were learning was beautiful, and powerful, and important, but that they would never be the same. 

“Julia will come back,” he said, offering what comfort he could to Quentin. “They always do.” 

“She’s on a different journey, now.” Quentin echoed what Eliot had been thinking. “I’ll... I’ll see her again, and I’ll still love her, but it... won’t ever be the same.”

Eliot went to Isadora, and put his arms around her neck, learning his cheek against her glossy hide. She nuzzled at him: the back of his head, his shoulder. He could feel the strength beneath her skin, the body made to run and run. And yet she would never leave him, would never cast off her human half, so that she could explore further, go faster. She was part of him always. 

She let him rest his weight on her, and they held each other, and the ache in Eliot’s heart began to ease. 

**

That night, the bed and Quentin were warm and soft, but Eliot couldn’t stay. Isadora was itchy, uncomfortable, and Eliot’s skin felt too small.

“Can I come?” Quentin asked as Eliot climbed out of bed and found his boots. His voice was husky with sleep. 

“You don’t have to, baby,” Eliot said, but Quentin was already sitting up, groping around for his hoodie. He stroked the back of Quentin’s neck, the tangle of his hair. They hadn’t been fucking lately, and Eliot thought it would matter more, but it didn’t. He slept with his fingers in Cora’s fur, and his face in Quentin’s chest; in the morning, he braided Raja’s mane, and he held Bambi’s hand like she was an extension of his own body, and he’d never known he could be so loved. 

But still, Isadora didn’t like being inside. Nowhere had ever felt big enough for them, for Eliot and Isadora, except for the sky. Long ago, on spring nights, Isadora would become a bat, and fly ahead of Eliot, and he’d be aware of the soundscape all around her, the thousand thousand whispers of night time. 

Now, though horses weren’t supposed to have nocturnal adventures, Isadora still wanted to shake off the confines of her life as though it was a coat that was too small for her. Living Eliot’s indoor human life with him stifled her. Eliot felt it too. Nowhere was big enough: not the fields, not the forests. Only the sky gave them enough room: the stars, expanding ever outwards. 

Eliot was afraid that having Quentin with him would make the night seem smaller. Companionship was the opposite of space. But Quentin was quiet as they walked, and Cora plunged ahead with Isadora into the cool dark. Eliot felt the joy of the two animals: the smells of grass and spring flowers and dew; the night time sounds of leaves and water; the possibilities spreading out all around them. 

His hand found Quentin’s. Together, they looked up at the stars.


End file.
